Marching Home
by Cat McDougall
Summary: A husband is lost. A son follows his footsteps. ONESHOT


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Disclaimer: The Karsites, Karse, Heralds, Valdemar and the Guard all belong to **M. Lackey**.

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A/N: This is a companion piece (heh heh heh, sorry no talking white pony) to my one-shot _Homecoming_.

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Marching Home

The sky is empty.

Not even a bird stirs the endless blue.

No wind stirs the trees.

The air is completely still.

Dust rises in the distance. The sound of many feet hitting a hard packed, clay road begins to echo.

Still air carries the sounds further than is needed.

__

"You better finish them chores boy!" A mother's voice rang out of the kitchen door. The boy sighed. The rumours had said they'd be home soon. He just wanted to **see**. His father wouldn't be among them. He'd died a couple years before. A hero.

Small comfort to a little boy who'd never met his father.

The medals were in the small chest his mother kept on the mantle piece. They and the letters, were the only thing he had.

A rhythmic stamping rings against the road. A small marching song is barely discernible in the air. It's a distant murmur that one might mistake for a breeze or trees rustling.

Until one looked up and saw the trees still. No breeze stirs the tops.

Heat lies thick on the baked clay.

__

The cow was milked, the eggs gathered. Carefully, he carried them up to the house. After breakfast, he'd have to haul water for the vegetable garden. Otherwise it'd wilt. And they'd lose half their winter food.

His mother's voice comes from the bedroom, where she'd been gathering her day's sewing. "Diril? Did you get all the eggs?" She asked, coming back out.

"Yes, Ma. Even from the brown speckled hen." He said, putting the milk to rise without spilling a drop. "Eggs are in the basket." He said, pointing to the basket on the table.

Sitting in his chair, he took his breakfast and started to eat, making sure not to mention the troops coming home. His mother didn't like to be reminded that other women's husbands were coming home, and hers was buried somewhere near the Karse border.

The stamping grows louder and more rhythmic.

The marching song is a buzz, an undertone to the droning of flies and bees in the gardens.

No one steps out of the shade.

No one dares look in that direction yet.

It might be a mirage.

It might not be true.

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Diril hauled water the rest of the day. The drought-ridden garden took the water and probably would've taken more. Water, however, was scarce. The Commander was trying to ration it. With all the animals, and gardens around, it was a highly prized commodity.

His mother sat in her rocking chair in the shade. Her needle moved in and out of the fabric. She wasn't the only widow who'd taken on the making of uniforms, or mending of them. But hers were the best, her stitches the tiniest; her seams the straightest.

Diril kept working until the sun was high. After stopping for a small meal at noon, he rested beneath a tree, a book open in front of him. The Commander had let him borrow it.

With the King's new "Mandatory Education Law", Diril had been taught to read. And never looked back. He enjoyed the tales that he could find. The Commander, after the priest had said he'd mastered reading, had offered his own tales. Most were dry reading on strategy, but he soaked them up.

Closer and closer the sound of footsteps comes.

Louder and louder the sound of the marching chant grows.

More and more people begin to look hopeful.

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His mother knew that he wanted to join the Guard. It was his fondest wish. As the son of a veteran, he knew they'd give him first chance at a slot. With his father dying a hero, he was almost guaranteed to get in.

But she didn't want him to get in. She wanted him to do something else. Anything else. Become a Bard, a Healer. **Something** besides joining the Guard.

She never said it out loud. She never let him know. But she was scared.

The Karsites had claimed one love. What would she do if they claimed another?

The dust cloud thickens.

The sound of a great many feet on a clay road echoes.

The marching chant now has a definite rhythm to it. Occasional words are loud enough to be understood.

The creak of wagon wheels joins the plethora of sounds.

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He hauled water again. The garden needed it. The milk cow needed it.

Everything needed it.

The rumours were still flying. The company was coming home. Soon. Or at least that's what the rumour mill said.

Wiping sweat from his forehead, he kept glancing to the south. That'd be the direction they came from.

If they came.

He wanted to see them. He **needed** to see them. Men who'd fought and bled alongside his father. Men who'd seen his father draw steel. Men who'd shared a simple mug of ale with his father. Perhaps from them, he could finally come to know the man his father had been.

Words float upon the air. The marching song is louder now.

Excited buzzing comes from the homes. They are returning. The Guard is coming home.

The men are not the same ones that left all that time ago. War, deprivation, horror has changed them. They carry no delusions anymore.

They are tainted. They will never be what they once were.

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He finally spied the cloud of dust. "Ma! Ma!" He yelled, running into the house, where she cut a pattern out of fabric. Another uniform for another soldier. "They're coming!" He said excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

She sighed wearily, closing her eyes. "That's nice Diril. Did you finish watering the garden?" She asked, not wanting to dwell on those that actually were coming home, and the one who wasn't.

Diril sighed, disappointed. He wanted to go see the men coming home. "No, but I will, Ma. Can I go see the men coming in? Watch until they're dismissed?" He asked hopefully.

She straightened, rubbing her back. She'd been bent over the table for some time. "Not until the garden is watered. You have chores to finish before you go play."

"But Ma—" He began to protest.

She gave him a stern look. He didn't protest any longer and slunk outside to finish watering the garden.

The southern horizon is obscured now. It is a haze of dust raised by passing feet and squeaking wheels.

Many mouths murmur the words to the marching chant. It is one well known amongst the wives, and children, of the Guard.

No Herald rides at their head. But none is needed. Everyone gathered knows who the footsteps and chanting belongs to.

The sound of squeaking wheels is high pitched, an odd high sound mixed with the deep rumble of feet and chanting.

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Diril tried to hurry watering the garden. But he didn't want his mother to be angry for doing it hastily. So he paid attention to what eh was doing.

The sound of the company was now in the square, headed for the fort. He groaned, carrying another bucket. He wanted to see the formation. It was exciting for him. Instead, he kept hauling water. Once the garden was finished, he watered the cow. Then he hauled a pail for drinking for his mother. Hopefully, she'd let him go.

When he set the bucket down in the kitchen, he looked up hopefully. There was a man sitting at the table.

Finally, the company walks through town.

There are squeals of excitement, calls of welcome. Many lift up never seen children for fathers to see before they come home. The chant continues as the disciplined troops head into the fort to be dismissed.

Everyone follows them. There are husbands, brothers, lovers, sons, daughters and sisters to be greeted and fawned over. Tears will be shed, and many children will be conceived.

The cheer when they are dismissed is deafening.

Men mingle with their families. Tears wet the ground in precious water.

Children laugh. The young ones cling to their mother's skirts, afraid of these people they'd never seen before. Kisses and hugs are exchanged. There is a desperation in the touches.

One guard, bearing a limp, steps out of the chaos and heads to see a widow.

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Diril stared at the man. He shouldn't have been here. His mother didn't like the Guards coming here. No matter that his father had been a Guard. Sidling up behind his mother, he listened as the man talked about his father. A man he'd never meet.

Carefully containing his excitement, he heard tales his mother would never have told him. Men had lost their lives yes. But many others had been saved.

The Karsites hadn't made it into Valdemar.

Seeing medals, and touching them wasn't the same. Now, he heard the truth, the reality of what had happened.

He knew, in that moment, that he would follow his father and join the Guard.

The Guard raises his hand and knocks gently on the door. An old woman, lines carved deep into her face opens the door. She stares at him, as if not believing he's there.

"Ma?" He asks tentatively, seeing her eyes fill with tears. "I'm home."

She throws her arms around him. "Welcome home, Diril. Gods be praised, welcome home."

—Fin—


End file.
